


je souhaite

by coffeesuperhero



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Christmas Smut, F/M, Gift Giving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: Is it really so bad to be magically trapped inside a house with the object of your (as yet unrequited) affections?





	je souhaite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Apricot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apricot/gifts).



> _je souhaite_ : I wish.
> 
> Set between second and third seasons.

_Prologue_

As with so many things, it probably wouldn't have happened at all if it hadn't been for the interns, though neither Alex nor Richard would ever discover that. 

It was the annual PNWS intern holiday bash, an informal event that mostly involved the intern team gathering in the staff room to play board games and drink a variety of beverages, both alcoholic and not, before eventually falling asleep on the floor and being rudely awakened by the janitorial staff the following morning. 

This year, at least, Nic had arranged for some sleeping bags to be brought in for everyone. 

"Don't have too much fun, people," he said, surveying the food, drinks, and other party accoutrements that packed the staff room. He grinned at the team. "Or do, you're all off tomorrow." 

"Thanks!" said Mindy, the intern who had been responsible for cracking the case of the boy by the river. "Now go away." 

"Hey, I _used_ to be an intern," Nic reminded them, as they politely but firmly shoved him towards the door. "Alex and I founded this holiday party when _we_ were the college interns! I'm a legend!" 

"Yes, but now you're just a party crasher," said Kel, who worked mostly with Nic on TANIS. 

"Et tu, my intern?" Nic said, hovering in the doorway between the hallway and the staff room, hands over his heart. 

"You know it, boss," Kel grinned. "See you next year, man." 

Once Nic had gone, the party began in earnest. Drinks were opened, snacks were eaten, pizza was ordered, and eventually, as things so often did at the PNWS studios, things briefly took a weird turn.

"Look what I found," Mindy said excitedly, pulling a big book out of her bag. "Remember that lady, Gloria Cohen, the weird rare books collector?" 

"The lady who kept saying the names of demons like it wasn't a big fucking deal of any kind?" Kel asked. "Yeah, I remember." 

"That's the one," said Mindy. "She left Alex a message earlier this month and said she was selling some of her collection, so..."

"Oh, hell no, Mindy, you did _not_ bring a demon book to the holiday party," Jax said, stepping all the way back from the table. 

"Of course not," Mindy said, affronted. "It's just like, a spellbook." 

"That isn't actually a book of magic spells, right?" asked David. The newest of the PNWS intern crew, he hadn't quite adjusted to the strangeness of some of the shows' subject matter. "I mean, that's not real. Magic, I mean." 

"Okay, who let Doctor Strand into this party?" Mindy joked, and they all laughed. 

"Speaking of Strand," said Jax, another TANIS intern, "did you see what happened when he got back from Italy?" 

Emma, who helped with social media and communications, snorted a laugh. "Oh, you mean the awkward moment when he got off the elevator and Alex was there and they _didn't_ actually rush into each other's arms and make out a lot but definitely wanted to?" 

"They're the worst," Kel complained. "You know he brought her presents, right? From Italy?" 

"No shit?" 

"Yeah. Fancy coffee and chocolate. _And_ , it wasn't from Italy, but I'm _preeeeeetty_ sure he bought her some kind of jewelry." 

"Okay, that you're just making up," Emma said. 

Kel shook their head. "No I'm fucking not, tell her, Jax."

"They're telling the truth," Jax said, nodding along as he opened a giant bag of M&M's and dumped them into a bowl. "He gave us that big stack of research to go through when he got back and there was a receipt in there for a place in Capitol Hill. We looked it up and get this, they only do _custom_ pieces. Expensive-ass shit." 

"Okay, but you don't know it's for _her_ ," Emma points out.

"Fuck if I don't," Kel interrupted. 

David raised an eyebrow. "And how is that, exactly?" 

Kel and Jax exchanged a sneaky glance. "We-ell," Kel said. "Maybe we called them and pretended to be, uh, working for Strand." 

Mindy leaned forward in her chair. " _And_?" 

"We said he wanted to double-check the text for the engraving on the piece," Jax explained. "Total shot in the dark, but it worked. Guess what it says?" 

"You're not gonna guess," Kel crowed. "Never in a million years." 

"It's coordinates," Jax said. " _To the studio_." 

"Shut _up_ ," Mindy exclaimed. "It is not." 

"It is! And get this: they said to assure him that it would be ready by the holidays." Kel leaned back in their seat, arms across their chest, clearly pleased that their investigative skills had surfaced up such a juicy story, but Emma just shook her head. 

"Okay, see, you two really had me going, but now I _know_ you're lying. No way does _Richard Strand_ celebrate _any_ holiday known to humankind." 

"Of course not, but the holiday's obviously just an excuse, see?" Jax argued. "You can't just give someone a present like that for no reason, but because _everybody_ gives gifts this time of year, even if you're a grumpy asshole and an atheist you can probably still get in under the radar right now without having to give all your feelings away. It's the perfect cover." 

"I don't understand why it has to be under the radar at all," Kel said. "Everyone knows already. They really need to figure their shit out." 

"She got him a watch, I think," Mindy said, popping some M&M's into her mouth. "A nice one, too. Maybe they'll trade presents and...other things, this year." 

"Don't hold your breath, they're totally useless," sighed Emma. "Since we wrapped season two, all they do when they're in the same room is exchange very meaningful glances and say each other's names a lot. Who does that? I love mutual pining in my fanfiction, okay, but in real life? Please. Get over it, no one cares." 

"I'll drink to that," said Kel and Jax simultaneously, and even David raised a red solo cup in the air. 

"I wish," said Mindy, holding her cup aloft, "that those two would get stuck somewhere until they can work out their differences, if you know what I mean." 

"Agreed," everyone chorused, and raised their red plastic solo cups in toast. 

They were too busy toasting to notice the weird ring of light that flickered around the spell book, but it was just as well. It would have ruined the party. 

\+ + +

It's December, and Alex is exhausted. 

They had wrapped season two of the show back in August, with a lot of general worries about the end of the world, and many more specific fears about Thomas Warren's strange fascination with the Strand family. She had thrown herself headlong into research mode, trying to find anything to convince herself that she hadn't moved the world a little closer to midnight by playing a cataclysmic symphony on her podcast, and Richard-- well, Richard had left again, though at least this time it hadn't been for parts unknown. It was only Italy, and for a good reason: if Charlie Strand is in danger, she deserved to hear it directly from her father. 

And so far, the world hasn't ended. But between the research and the insomnia, by mid-December, Alex is wrung out and bone-tired. Richard hasn't been back from Italy for more than a week, but in that time, she thinks they've watched at least a month's worth of his backlog of black tapes, and although none of it has yielded any kind of useful information, she can't seem to leave it alone. Or maybe it would be more honest to say that she can't leave _him_ alone, she thinks, as she watches him carry another box of tapes into the living room of his father's house, where they've created a near-permanent work station for themselves. 

She wishes the tapes were more useful. She wishes she didn't need the tapes as an excuse to be here with him. She wishes they'd stop dancing around what she's almost positive at this point is a mutual attraction, or at the very least, affection. She wishes a lot of things. None of them are happening.

"Ready for another round?" he asks, lifting the box of tapes onto the coffee table. 

"No," she says honestly, but she smiles up at him anyway, even if it's a tired smile. "But let's get to it." 

"We can take a break," he offers, paused halfway towards loading the next cassette. He blinks at the clock. "We should probably eat something. How long have we been here?" 

She yawns and stretches and tries not to notice that he notices, and that he does not look away. "Ten years, I think, but it's okay. Come on. One more and we'll take a break." 

"All right," he says, and comes to sit down next to her again, pressing play with the remote as he does. 

But to say that what is on this particular tape is... _unpleasant_ would be an understatement, and for the first time in many hours of watching these things, she actually feels vaguely ill.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him looking at her, a concerned frown tugging at his lips. She looks over, but says nothing. 

"We can pick this up later," he says softly, and she holds in a sigh. 

It seems like he says everything softly, lately, to her. His voice has always been pleasant-- more than, really, though she tries not to dwell on its more attractive aspects lest her ethics be compromised-- but since August she has found the sound of it to be more a source of comfort than ever before, and for the three months that he was away she found herself rearranging her schedule just to be able to talk with him when it was still a decent hour in Italy. For a while, they at least attempted to talk about work during those calls, but for the last few weeks he was there, they just...talked. He'd call, or she would, and she'd tell him about a book she was reading, or he'd tell her about some museum he'd been to. It was nice. It was almost halfway to normal, something she never thought she'd find again after two years digging into supernatural secrets. 

He had seen her through more than a few long nights that way-- her insomnia is worse now than ever before, though she's kept the worst of it from Nic and the others at the studio. Richard, though. Richard knows the truth of it. 

_Richard._ That's pretty much all she calls him, now, if she has occasion to call him anything. He hasn't been _Doctor Strand_ to her for a while, unless they're recording, and even then she imagines she slips up more often than not. 

Not least on her list of wishes is the wish that they could talk about whatever is between them, because it's getting more difficult to tell herself that there's nothing. But for the first time, Alex Reagan has found something she is afraid to lose if she chases it, afraid that this precious, tenuous thing will disappear if they hold it up to the light. So she keeps her silence, as he keeps his. But still she spends hours upon hours of her days sitting next to him, shoulder to shoulder on the couch as tape after macabre tape plays in front of them. They eat dinner together most days now, taking turns ordering take-out because they're too tired to cook, or too worried, or too sad, or too something. Sometimes she falls asleep in the middle of working and wakes to find a blanket draped over her, or sometimes she's the one who pulls a quilt from the hall closet and gently settles it across him before tiptoeing away. Either way, they've been taking care of each other for a while now. And it's nice, and it's good, but she wishes sometimes that it had a name. 

"I'm going to make us some tea," he says, interrupting her thoughts. 

"All right," she agrees. 

The contents of the tape they just watched still fresh in her mind, Alex watches him disappear into the kitchen and decides it is definitely time for some air. 

 

\+ 

It's her quest for fresh air that alerts her to the problem. As soon as she opens the front door she can feel it, some strange crackling energy, like too much static electricity has built up. She frowns and flips on the porch light, but sees nothing strange. So she takes a tentative step over the threshold-- and is immediately returned to the foyer in a flash of white light. 

"What in the--" 

She tries again. And again. And again, panic rising every time, until the noise in her brain is as white as the flash of light that refuses to let her leave this house. She knows-- rationally, logically, whatever-- that this isn't a real thing that can happen to a person, but a lot of things have happened in the past two years that defy logic or reason, and Alex no longer cares if things are possible. She just wants to know the truth. 

With no explanations and no place to turn, she does the one thing she can think to do: she shouts for Richard, who appears almost immediately from the kitchen, still holding an empty mug and looking worried at the note of fear in her voice. 

"Is something the matter?" 

"Uh," she says, looking out at the dimly lit lawn through the open door, trying to figure out how to phrase this in some way that will not earn her that patented Richard Strand _I know all about apophenia, ask me how_ stare. "This is going to sound really weird, but hear me out. I'm, uh, testing a hypothesis." 

"What?" 

"I told you it would sound weird," she sighs. "Would you do me a favor and just... go outside for a second?" 

"Go outside." 

"Yep." 

The look he gives her as he goes to open the door suggests to her that he thinks she's finally totally lost it, but to his credit, he does as she asks. 

Or at least, he tries. After his seventh attempt, she reaches out to grab his arm before he can charge out anymore. 

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's not working," she says. 

"That's not-- this isn't-- that isn't _possible_ ," he sputters.

"Well, it seems to be happening anyway." 

"There's a back door," he suggests, after a moment. 

But the back door isn't any more forgiving than the front, nor are any of the windows on any floor of the house, and half an hour later, they are still very, very stuck. They reconvene in the living room, pacing past one another, tossing out ideas. 

"We could call for help," Alex suggests. "You've got a landline, right?"

"I do. It's out. I tried." 

She sighs. "Great. My cell phone doesn't work either. Total brick. And the battery was fine ten minutes ago. Yours?" 

He frowns, pulling his phone from his pocket, greeted only by a black screen, which he holds up to her as they pass one another, still pacing. "Did you try your computer?" 

"Yeah, after I checked my phone. Here's the weird thing-- the internet's up and I can go to pretty much any website I want to, but if I try to send an email, post on social media...anything that would get a message to someone?" she shrugs. "Nothing. I restarted it twice, same problem." 

"Wonderful." 

"Yeah. So. We can't leave the house, and we can't communicate with anyone outside the house?"

"It defies explanation at present, but that would seem to be an accurate summary of our current situation, yes." 

"I have a lot of questions." 

"So do I," he says. 

"How could this happen?" 

"It can't," he says, finally standing still, arms crossed. He could be on a poster for the annual skeptics' conference, he looks so haughty and self-assured. 

"Okay," she says, sighing as she, too, stops pacing. "But it did, so--" 

"So, we're hallucinating." 

"Sure," she sighs. "Seems right." 

One thing she will say for Richard: he has gotten somewhat better, in the very recent past, at realizing when she's over her limit for whatever condescending remark he might be about to make about the weird events they're researching. She's familiar-- probably too familiar, given that this is supposed to be a professional relationship-- with the exact moment he figures it out, the way his lips twitch, just a little, and then looks away, just like he's doing right now. 

"Someone's bound to come looking for you eventually," he says, diplomatically. 

"Maybe," she sighs. "I told Nic I was heading out of town for the holidays." 

"Your family will notice when you're not there, surely." 

"Well..." 

She'd love to say that her family will miss her. She really would. But though they probably will, the truth of the matter is that she told Nic she would be going home to see her family for the holidays, and she told her family that she was staying in Seattle, because her holiday plans, more or less, were to be here. 

She even got him a present. She has no idea how she's going to give it to him, since he continues to protest that as an avowed atheist he doesn't care about the spirit of this or any other season, but it's here, in her purse, wrapped in the plainest, least holiday-inspired wrapping paper she could find. She shouldn't have, but well, there's a lot of things she shouldn't do when it comes to Richard Strand, and she does them anyway. 

"You told them you weren't coming," he says, blinking slowly as understanding dawns. There's that soft note again, like a blanket around her heart. 

She makes herself meet his eyes. "Yeah." 

"Well," he says, clearing his throat. "Then I suppose we have some research to do."  
At any normal time of the day or the year, Alex would have called the interns and put them on the case. But even if she could manage to get a message through, it's the annual holiday party tonight, and the last thing she needs is a small group of mostly intoxicated twentysomethings yelling over speakerphone that maybe it's a good idea that they're stuck in here together. She is well aware of the interns' general feelings on the nature of her relationship with the man currently sitting across the kitchen table from her, and it is very much a _get on with it, already_ attitude. It's not even that she disagrees, which is the entire problem, really. 

She sighs into her half-empty mug of tea, and Richard looks up from the old case files he's been going through. 

"Everything all right?" 

"Sure," she says. "Everything's great. We've been at this for hours and the only thing we've found is one of your old case files that you swear isn't relevant." 

"And it isn't," he insists. "Those people were clearly fabricating every detail of that event." 

"Are we?" she demands, but he only shifts uncomfortably for a few moments instead of answering, and eventually she gives up on waiting and goes back to her research. 

It's after midnight when she finds something helpful. What she finds is not the best solution, but it is the only solution the internet seems to be able to offer.

"Look," she says, turning the computer around and pointing at her screen. "I found something. It's supposed to help situations like this." 

"Situations like what?" 

"Don't make me say it," she sighs. "You'll make that face." 

"I'm sure that I won't," he says, but in response she only shakes her head and pushes the laptop in his direction. 

He peers dubiously at the screen. "Oh, you can't be serious." 

"Oh look," she says, pointing at him. "That, in case you're curious, is the face I was referring to." 

He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. "What did you expect? You found a _spell_." 

"Well, technically it's a ritual, but I'm not going to split hairs, here." 

"You want _me_ to do a _spell_." 

"What I _want_ is to not be trapped in here forever," she says, and taps the side of her laptop. "Eventually we'll run out of food, you know. So, look. We read this script, we light some candles, and who knows, maybe we're out of here, maybe we're not, but-- if you don't believe in this stuff, then what's the harm?" 

"Oh, I don't know," he scoffs. "It isn't as though I've built a successful career and reputation on debunking the exact sort of thing you're asking me to participate in." 

"I'm not recording this," she points out. "And whether it works or not, I won't ever say a word about you being involved. Cross my heart and hope to-- get out of here before we run out of food."

"Fine. But if a single word of this shows up in a recording--" 

"It won't," she says. She slides the computer toward him. "Just read." 

"Oh, of course, it's in Latin, because otherwise how would we know it's magical," he grumbles, adjusting his glasses as he scans the screen. "What else do we have to do, close our eyes and spin in circles?" 

Alex slaps her hands on the edge of the table, and he jumps, just a little. "I get it, okay? You think this is absurd. But I'm not hearing any other ideas from the dual doctorate section of this party, so can we get on with it, please?" 

"Yes," he relents. "Fine." 

They read. They do light candles. They do not turn around and spit, although there is something about drinking ceremonial wine, which Richard has quite a few snide remarks about while he collects and opens the one bottle of red he has on hand. When they finish, she would swear the lights flicker, just for a second. She looks to Richard for confirmation, but if he saw anything he's not about to admit it, so she heads for the front door alone and charges forward-- only to be pushed right back into the foyer, time after time. 

"Fuck," she says finally, staring out into the darkness outside the open door. "I really thought that would work." 

Richard's voice calls her back to the kitchen, where he is staring at the laptop screen with a look on his face that she doesn't think she's seen since he forgot to ask about separate rooms at the Empress. "Alex. Did you...did you read the comments on this?" 

"It's the internet," she says, raising an eyebrow. "You never read the comments." 

"I think in this case it might be...illuminating." He spins the computer around, and she steps over to read. 

When she gets to the sentence, _The language in this is accurate, but this ritual will not work without sex magic, as it is a vital component of--_ she stops reading. 

"Oh. Oh, wow. Oh. Um." She reaches out and snaps the laptop shut. "Well that's obviously. Off the table." 

"Right," he says, not meeting her eyes. 

"I, um," she rubs her arms and wishes she had never found that spell. "You were right, this was...stupid." 

"I tried to tell you," he says, that condescending tone creeping back into his voice. 

"Of course. I'll just keep researching, then," she bites out. 

"Looking for more spells? Don't waste your time," he scoffs, and at that, her anger reaches a boiling point.

"We. Are. Stuck. In this house," she reminds him. "I realize that doesn't make any kind of logical sense, but no matter how much you don't want to believe it, we are _still_ stuck here! And eventually, we're going to run out of food, which we need to survive, and despite that actual basic fact of biology, which is _science_ , I'm the only one trying to figure out how to get us out of this! So any time you feel like _offering a suggestion or idea_ instead of _grumbling at me_ about how _absurd and ridiculous_ all of this is, that would be great!" 

She leaves him with her computer. Let him figure it out on his own. 

\+ + +

After Alex departs the kitchen for points unknown, Richard takes a moment to take stock of the situation. 

He almost makes to follow her, but upon consideration of the awkwardness that had just passed between them, he decides that perhaps he should give her some space, so he occupies himself with finding a stopper for the wine they'd had to open. She's probably not the only one who needed some space, either, he considers, thinking again of the way her face had turned a dull pink after reading those comments about-- he can barely even think the words _sex magic_ , but there you have it. There are better reasons for her face to be flushed, really, and precisely none of them bear thinking about, so he pushes the thoughts away. 

He shouldn't have called her attention to those comments at all, really, but he hadn't wanted to do the damn ritual in the first place, and all he'd meant to do was use it as an example of the general absurdity of the idea. He hadn't meant to call attention to...well. And instead, in the process, he upset her. He hasn't been terribly helpful, that much is true. But what _would_ be helpful in this situation? He eyes the wine bottle. Maybe they should have had the rest of the stuff and finally addressed the rather large elephant in the room-- but he won't do that. He can't. 

He sighs and sets the wine on the counter. Of all the fun the universe has had at his expense over the years, to trap him in the same place and time as the object of his unrequited affection does seem particularly cruel. It's been a tough twenty years, isn't he owed a break at some point? 

But he won't take one at her expense, even if he's fairly certain that she wants him to. He's tried to ignore it, tried to tell her that perhaps they should go back to addressing one another with honorifics instead of the intimate familiarity of their first names. He hadn't really expected to find all that much common ground with a person who _podcasts_ for a living, a verb he still struggles to utilize because it doesn't sound _real_ , but in spite of himself he's come to enjoy her company. More than enjoy-- long for, and that, more than anything else, more than potential demon armies and the end of the world-- that is the thing that frightens him most. He's tried so hard not to have anything left to lose. 

He shouldn't have called her every day from Italy. He shouldn't have missed her as much as he did. At the very least he should have tried harder to keep the conversation germane to their work instead of meandering down every little verbal sidewalk or back alley, the two of them so lost in the book she was reading or the day that he had that they barely even noticed the passage of time. He hasn't done that with anyone in decades. And, he knows now, he hasn't ever done that with anyone who wasn't assigned to do so by a mysterious shadow organization that believes he's some kind of psychic. 

He wishes that the circumstances were different, or perhaps that he were. He wishes he were the sort of person she should be with. Younger. Less baggage. Involved in fewer mysteries surrounding death cults who might wish her dead. But wishing doesn't make it so, and they have bigger problems now that they're stuck here. Impossibly, inexplicably stuck. There is no explanation or reasoning that makes it make sense, but there also doesn't seem to be a way out of it, though if anyone can find the answer, surely it is a persistent, tenacious journalist who does not take no for an answer. 

Not for the first time, he wonders what all that persistence and tenacity looks like uncovered, and he has to splash his face with cold water from the sink for a distraction. It helps, a little, but not nearly enough, so he stifles a groan and heads to the pantry. If he can do nothing else, he can take stock of the amount of food they have. Hopefully it's enough to reassure Alex that they have time to sort through at least some of this nonsense. 

\+ + +

She's up before he is in the morning, but then, not sleeping will do that for a person. If he slept, she doesn't know about it, and she tells herself firmly that she doesn't care. She tries the front and back doors again, with no different a result than the night before, and settles back into her seat in the kitchen, poring over questionable internet forums for solutions. 

Richard mumbles a good morning in her general direction when he does finally make his way downstairs, and she notes with concern that he doesn't look like he slept much at all. Then she remembers that she's still irritated with him for his general unwillingness to help figure this out, and shrugs a good morning instead of asking how he slept. 

For long moments, they're both silent-- he makes tea, which she assumes is only for him, but after the water boils she hears him pouring two cups, one of which he brings to set in front of her. It's coffee, she sees now, not tea. Her drink of choice, and served the way she likes it-- a splash of milk has colored the liquid a slightly less dark brown. She greets it with a raised eyebrow, and he frowns. 

"Peace offering," he says, nudging it towards her. 

She makes no move to touch the coffee. "For?" 

"You were right," he sighs. "I haven't been very helpful so far." 

"Here's a question," she says, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "If I close my eyes and spin around in a circle will that sound like an actual apology? Or is that just _apophenia_." 

"That's-- fair," he says, after appearing to wage some kind of internal battle. "And...I apologize." 

At any other time, perhaps the regret in his voice and the softness in his expression would have placated her, but right now, she just isn't feeling very charitable. She crosses her arms over chest and says, "For what?" 

He looks somewhere in the direction of his feet and runs a hand through his hair. "Being...obstreperous, I think."

"That's just another day at the office for you," she points out.

"True," he acknowledges, with an apologetic frown. "I'm sorry that I haven't been very helpful. I am-- aware that we are in something of a bind."

"And?" 

"And...from here on out I'll...try to be more helpful. If it makes you feel any better, I catalogued the contents of the pantry and the refrigerator last night. We have at least two weeks' worth of food." 

"That's...actually very helpful," she says, surprised. 

"I'm sorry I didn't think of it before." 

"Apology accepted," she says, and reaches for her coffee. 

\+ + +

Two days pass, and Richard is tired of not being able to leave his own home. They've continued their research efforts, but to no avail, and worrying over that means he's sleeping less and less, which isn't exactly aiding the situation, though he remains convinced that one of these days, someone will miss her and come looking. 

At least Alex seems to have forgiven him for being initially more condescending than helpful, so that's something. But for all that he has occasionally considered what they might do if they had nothing but time alone together, the reality of the situation isn't quite as titillating. For one thing, they can't leave, and an unusually practical Alex has decided that rationing their food supply is the best way to address the issue. It's not that he disagrees, but it's also not particularly romantic. 

Which is just as well, because it isn't, and it can't be, although it is getting more difficult to remind himself of that the longer this drags on. The problem, such as it is, is that because she's been marooned here unexpectedly, she couldn't pack for the occasion. So, to be kind, he's been lending her clothes. His clothes. And she's wearing them. And it is _distracting_ on a level he has not previously experienced while working alongside her. After a long moment over breakfast in which he found himself harboring no small amount of jealousy for the flannel shirt he lent her, he had decided it was a much better idea to minimize his time in her presence, at least until she puts her own clothes back on. 

He did hear her doing laundry this morning, so it's possible that this afternoon she'll be back in her own things and he'll get something of a reprieve from meditating on the fact that his clothes are touching more of her than he ever will.

"Hey," she calls, interrupting his thoughts. She sticks her head into the kitchen. "I don't know about you, but I need a break. You want to get back to these tapes?" 

"That's a break?" 

"No," she laughs. "But it's all I've got. You in?" 

He really is, he thinks, as he follows her. In all sorts of ways. 

\+ 

Sometime around midnight on the twenty-fourth of December, with no way out of the house and nothing else to do, Alex pauses the tape they're currently watching and announces that the break they are taking is going in a bit of a different direction.

"Well, this may not matter to you, but it's Christmas Eve, I guess," she says. "And I'm out of ideas for getting us out of here, so I think we drink the rest of that wine and forget about it the end of the world for a few hours." 

"I'll get us some glasses," he says, after a moment. 

They drink. They talk. They sit on the couch, a foot of space between them that feels smaller with every sip of wine, and any minute now, he's going to stand up and announce that he's going to bed before he does something inadvisable. 

"I have a confession to make," she says, just after midnight. He's very grateful that he's already sitting down. 

His answering "Oh?" sounds a little more strangled than the nonchalant response he was aiming for, but she doesn't comment on it. 

She gives him a sheepish sort of smile. "I...may have gotten you a present." 

He raises an eyebrow. "Is it a fruit basket?" 

"No," she says, grinning. "It _definitely_ isn't." She reaches for her bag, strewn across the coffee table, and pulls out a small box, which she pushes in his direction. "I won't say Merry Christmas, or happy holidays, or make any references to any holiday of any kind, and you can pretend it's a birthday present, if it makes you feel better...but I think it's possible that you'll like what I got you and if you could at least open it, that would be great." 

He stares at the box in silence for a moment, then makes a decision of his own. 

"Hold that thought," he says, and goes over to the cabinet to unearth a similarly small, plainly wrapped box, which he sets in front of her on the coffee table. "Before you open this, I just want it understood that this is in no way a recognition of any sort of religious observance, or--" 

"Right, right, it's in no way a Christmas present, I get it," she says, her smile so bright that it feels like a gift in itself. "It's just a regular old present that happened to make its way to me at the same time of year when millions of other people are exchanging things that _are_ Christmas presents. Which this isn't. At all. Complete coincidence." 

"As long as you understand," he says solemnly, but he's smiling now, which ruins the effect. 

They pick up their respective gifts, Richard methodically peeling back tape and wrapping paper and Alex divesting hers of its paper with her usual brand of determination and verve. Eventually, they are both holding unwrapped boxes, and she nods over at him. 

"You first," she says, and he shrugs. 

The box he holds contains a watch-- a very _nice_ watch, and worth more than she should probably have spent on a podcasting journalist's salary, he thinks, as he gingerly picks it up and studies it. 

"I know you're more of an analog person," she says, "but trust me, you needed an upgrade. "It's a smartwatch hybrid, so, best of both worlds."

"I can't-- this is--"

"I've got family connections with the company, so don't say you can't accept it," she explains. "Unless you don't like it, I mean, I know these things are sort of personal, but--" 

"I love it," he says, managing somehow to correctly say _it_ and not _you_. Both things are true, but only one of them is a thing he can say. 

"My turn?" she asks, and when he nods, she lifts the lid of the box she's holding. 

"Oh, wow," she says, staring into the box. 

It's far too late, he realizes belatedly, to make this seem like anything other than a gift one would give a significant other, and his heart thuds a little louder than usual. It cost more than he probably should be spending on jewelry for anyone, but despite the many interpersonal catastrophes that have befallen him, and entirely unbeknownst to most of the people who know him now, he remains something of a romantic. And once he'd had the idea, well. He couldn't let it go, much like a certain relentless journalist of his recent acquaintance. He'd say she's been a bad influence, but he knows that's not so. 

She holds up the necklace, now, and the silver compass shines in the light. "This is beautiful, but I--" 

"Deserve it," he interrupts. "It's...you should think of it as less of a gift and more... payment in kind." 

She looks over at him, brows drawn together, curious. "What do you mean?" 

 

"I've been lost for a while," he admits. "And...I have appreciated your direction more than you know." 

"Direction, huh?" She runs her fingers over the coordinates engraved on the back. "These look familiar. This is..." 

"The studio," he says, and she smiles. 

"Thank you," she says, and he shakes his head. 

"No," he says. "Thank you." 

They split the rest of the wine, Alex insisting that he take the larger glass. He shouldn't. The wine has already loosened his tongue more than he should have let it. But he's had a very difficult time saying no to her lately, or really ever, at all, and as he watches her happily playing with the compass looped around her neck, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should stop fighting that so much. 

"Too bad we can't go anywhere or communicate with anyone," she says. "Sort of defeats the point of a smartwatch or a compass, huh." 

"Yes, well, I suppose there's always that _spell_ ," he jokes, remembering too late the content of the comments that he found. Alex, clearly, has not forgotten, if the lift of her eyebrows and the flush on her cheeks is anything to go by. 

"Oh? What exactly are you proposing?" she says, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright. 

"I--well." 

"Forget it," she sighs, giving him a weak smile. "Sorry if I made this awkward." 

"You didn't," he says. He clears his throat. "It...hasn't escaped my notice that we have developed a certain...sympatico, you and I." 

Her eyes widen, and she finishes her wine before she speaks again. "Is this that conversation, finally, where we talk about what we're doing to do about that?" 

"I think we're going to do exactly what we've been doing," he sighs. 

"So, nothing." 

"Right." 

"Why?" she challenges. 

He looks over at her, surprised. "Your career, for a start," he says. "I'm not worth that. I'm certainly not worth your life." 

"And that's your choice, not mine?" she demands. "It's my career and it's my life." 

"I'm the one who usually has to live with the consequences," he snaps, and closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see the hurt in hers. "I'm just-- I'm a bad idea." 

"You can say that all you want, I don't have to agree." 

"Well, we can add it to the long list of things we disagree about, then," he grumbles. He should have expected that she'd fight him on this-- she's fought him on everything else since he met her. Not that he's complaining, exactly: it's that tenacity that has perversely endeared her to him. He knows very well that he's positioned himself in his work in such a way that everyone else has to work harder than he does to prove the existence of the unexplained, but she's never accepted that. She haunts him as much as any ghost might, and unfortunately, his feelings on the subject of one Alex Reagan are not as easily debunked or waved away. 

"Do we really disagree, though?" she asks, breaking into his thoughts. "I wasn't the only one making those phone calls, the past three months." 

"I know," he says, and she picks up the compass again, holding it out to him. 

"And this is what, exactly," she murmurs. "You said you needed direction." 

"Are you offering to give me one?" 

"It's not like I haven't thought about it." 

"Oh," he says, and it's not exactly a shocking admission, but it's certainly galvanizing, in its way. 

"Are you blushing?" 

"No," he protests, although he can feel that he most certainly is. "If I am I'm sure it's just the wine." 

She raises an eyebrow. "This can't be the first time in your life someone has told you they found you attractive." 

"Well, no, but..." he shrugs. "You have to admit, the context leaves a little to be desired." 

"Really? The context is that we are stuck in this house together with nothing else to do," she says, and he isn't sure when the tone of this conversation shifted exclusively towards sex, but he can't say that he's upset about it, either. "And as long as we're finally having this conversation, I figured I might as well confess my sins." 

He coughs. "Sins?" 

"I'm pretty sure I don't have to define that word for you." 

"Oh, you most certainly don't," he drawls. "I wasn't asking about a definition." 

"No?" 

"You said _sins_. Plural." 

"Yes," she says, licking her lips. "Well. Maybe I thought about it more than once." 

"You might not be alone in that." 

"Do you want to kiss me?" 

"Yes," he says. 

"I wish you would," she says, and he does. 

\+ + +

The very first brush of his lips against hers is so soft that she almost doubts that it's there, but then she leans in a little more, and he's warm and solid and really, actually kissing her, two years of searching and arguing and waiting all pressed into one lingering kiss that very quickly turns into a lot more than that. 

"Are you sure about this?" he murmurs against her ear, but her fingers are already working to undo the buttons of his shirt. 

"Yes," she says, pushing the unbuttoned sides of his shirt apart and climbing into his lap. "Are you?"

"Yes," he replies. He runs his fingers underneath the edge of her shirt, lightly skirting her skin, and she decides that if they are going to do this, finally, really, she is going to move it along, so she leans back, just enough that she can tug off her shirt without hitting him in the face with either her shirt or the necklace he's given her, which she refuses to take off just yet. She's about to reach for the button of his trousers, but he distracts her with a very firm kiss and another question. 

"Can we move this upstairs?" he asks, and at her impatient, inquisitive noise, he clarifies, "it's not as though I haven't thought about it, but the first time we do this, I'd really prefer to not do this on the couch." 

"Agree to disagree," she says, kissing him again. "Unless you had some kind of plan? Since I'm not alone in thinking about this, apparently." 

"Of course I've thought about it," he says. 

"And?" 

"And," he says, kissing her again, running his hands up her sides until she shivers with delight, "I'll tell you what I've thought about, but I think, in the interest of fairness, a little quid pro quo wouldn't come amiss." 

"Okay," she says, every nerve in her body skating along a very delicious edge of pleasure at the thought of vocalizing any of her many fantasies for him. "I should warn you, I've got a long list." 

"It's a good thing one of us is patient, then," he murmurs. 

"Sure," she says, tracing the line of his erection through his trousers, reveling in the way it makes him close his eyes and sigh and push into her touch. "So what did you want to do, upstairs? Sweep me off my feet?" 

"Something like that," he says, leaning up to trace the shape of her left ear with his lips, a whisper of a touch that makes her shiver. "What I really wanted was to make you _wait_." 

She's never been in a position before where she thinks someone could get her off without touching her at all, but at the moment, she's fairly sure that he could. 

"Yeah," she breathes. "Okay. We're not doing that right now, though." 

"No," he laughs. 

"Great," she says, raising what she hopes is a challenging eyebrow, which he seems to understand, because he laughs, and kisses her, and tugs at the band of her borrowed sweatpants until she leans up so he can help her slip them off. "Also, just so you know," she continues, "All those phone calls were a huge missed opportunity for some very good phone sex, by the way, and I thought about that a lot." 

"I'll remember that." 

"Good," she says, and manages to recover the presence of mind to undo his trousers at last. "Your turn." 

"Soundbooth," he says roughly, as she pushes past pants and underwear and wraps a hand around his cock. "Microphones on, so you have to be _quiet_ while I fuck you." 

"Fuck," she swears. 

"Is that an invitation?" 

" _Yes_ ," she says, gripping the open sides of his shirt. 

"Good," he says. "If you can reach my wallet on the coffee table--" She's already moving before he stops talking, pleased that he had the foresight to keep anything around and doubly so that it was probably with her in mind, but he makes a face as she pulls away. "I'm sorry, there's not really an alluring way to say that there are condoms in my wallet, is there?" 

"I don't know, that sounded pretty good to me," she tells him, and twists around, reaching backwards towards the coffee table. If she arches her back a little more than she needs to, it's only because she's pretty sure he's staring, and she's rewarded with a soft sigh and his hands on her breasts. 

When she turns back around, she doesn't even bother to hand him his own wallet, she just fishes in what she suspects will be the most likely place to find what she's after, and once that mission is accomplished, she tosses his wallet over her shoulder, completely unconcerned about where it might land. Richard watches the whole thing with what she can only describe as aroused amusement, and she winks at him as she divests the condom of its wrapper. "I'll pick that up later." 

"At this particular moment, I hardly care," he says, hissing in pleasure as she rolls it on, leans up, and slides down onto him. 

"You did say we weren't doing the waiting thing this time," she mumbles, rolling her hips. "Fuck." 

"I did," he says. "Also-- I think it's your turn." 

"My turn?" she says, blinking, lost in a haze of need that makes it difficult to understand words. 

"I told you," he says, nipping at her shoulder. "I'll talk, but this has to be quid pro quo." 

"Chicago," she manages to say. "Your office, in Chicago." 

His fingers still momentarily, and she'd complain, but it's honestly very, very good that she's distracted him so much that he can't remember what he was doing. "What about it?" 

"I wanted to lock your door and get on my knees for you," she says, and she is rewarded with a momentarily speechless Richard, who looks up at her with wide eyes and an almost slack-jawed expression, all that careful control peeled back to reveal an openness that makes her heart ache. 

"I can't--" he says, and she nods. 

"Same. Oh, fuck," she manages to say, her ability to form words increasingly lessened by the feeling of him and the knowledge that this, actually, is real, no longer just the desperate fantasies of two people who have wanted this for so long. The next few minutes are a blur of grasping hands, frantic kisses, and muttered oaths as all the pressure and tension that has built up between them for two years finally, at long last, finds a release.

At the same time, the lights in the house blink and flicker and briefly go out, leaving them to catch their breath in the dark for the space of ten seconds before the power comes back up. 

She lifts her head from where it was resting against his neck, blinking around at the brightness of the room. "Do you think that means...?" 

"I suppose we could try," he says, casting a glance towards the front door and then back up at her. 

"Yeah, you know what? Maybe later," she says, after a moment, and kisses him. "Much, much later."

+

 _Epilogue_

_Excerpt, PNWS Intern Twitter_

  
**Jax's Holiday Sweater**  
_@jaxqroberts_

@kelfah @mindyyyyys @emmarahr  
ayyy it's fancy dayafterxmas dinner w/fam & GUESS which PNWS host is here ON A DATE with the subject of her creepy-ass podcast THIS IS NOT A DRILL THEY'RE HOLDING HANDS, FOLX

7:32PM -- 26 December 2016  


  
**Kristmas with Kel**  
_@kelfah_

@jaxqroberts @mindyyyyys @emmarahr WHAAAAA Is she wearing new jewelry 'cause i have to know if we were right

7:33PM -- 26 December 2016  


  
**Jax's Holiday Sweater**  
_@jaxqroberts_

@kelfah @mindyyyyys @emmarahr  
Yeah yeah it's A COMPASS, like a necklace and it looks expensive as shit  
7:34PM -- 26 December 2016  


  
**Emma.**   
_@emmarahr_

@jaxqroberts @kelfah @mindyyyyys   
Uh, like the old meme says, pics or it didn't happen  
7:34PM -- 26 December 2016   


  
**Jax's Holiday Sweater**  
_@jaxqroberts_

@emmarahr @kelfah @mindyyyyys  
I'm TRYING but  
oh shit SHIT I think they see me  
SHIt

7:36PM -- 26 December 2016  


  
**Richard Strand**  
_@strandinstitute_

@jaxqroberts @kelfah @mindyyyyys @emmarahr  
Delete your accounts. 

7:37PM -- 26 December 2016  


  
**Alex Reagan**  
_@AlexReaganRadio_

@jaxqroberts @kelfah @mindyyyyys @emmarahr  
I want to be impressed with your investigative skills, but--wow, guys. Also, I think what @strandinstitute is trying to say is 1/2

@jaxqroberts @kelfah @mindyyyyys @emmarahr  
Have a great holiday break, and let's have a chat about boundaries when we get back to the studio, okay? 2/2

7:39PM -- 26 December 2016  
\+ 

Alex finishes typing, hits send, and watches as across the restaurant, Jax's phone lights up. She shakes her head. "Well, I guess it was just a matter of time. Also, thanks for not saying that the boundaries thing was pretty ridiculous, coming from me."

"You're welcome," he says, a small smile lurking behind his hand before he looks over in Jax's direction again and frowns. "Are you-- is this okay?" 

"I'm great," she says, squeezing his hand. "Honestly? Apart from getting stuck in the house? This particular holiday vacation has been pretty much everything I wished it could be." 

"Good," he says, and neither of them spares another thought for the interns during the rest of dinner, or at any point afterward.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, Apricot! I hope you enjoy!


End file.
